


Breathed Upon

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-28
Updated: 2008-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having a muse is hard work. Being a muse is even harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathed Upon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tornpantyhose@livejournal.com.

Honest truth? Patrick never considered himself a particularly creative person. He could go as far as saying he had some talent with instruments; he liked instruments, and because he liked them so much, they liked him back. Mostly. The drum-sets were the friendliest, very outgoing and gregarious, in his humble opinion, while guitars tended to be a little haughtier. He thought that violins would be sweet, if and when he gave them their chance, and pianos were smooth operators who tried to lure one in with the sheer magnitude of their sexy, but Patrick had their number. Yes, he did.

When, through his constant muttering at the instruments, Pete had found out that Patrick thought of them possessing such distinct personalities, he had naturally assumed that Pete would laugh hard enough to crack a rib; instead, Pete's dark eyebrows had crept up a little and he had regarded Patrick with a stare of considering amusement.

"What about bag-pipes," Pete had said, deadpan. "Those are... lonely."

"I _know_." Patrick had been energised, hands flapping around a little, surprised that Pete could get it so easily. "I know, they just keep calling and calling--"

"And nobody answers," Pete said with a little smile. Patrick had made a small noise in the back of his throat, excitement twisting around all the strange thoughts that he had buried in his mind, and he had proceeded to bombard Pete with what he thought of bass-guitars and congo-drums and theremins. It must have looked strange to passing onlookers, to watch this short little teenager with the pale skin fluttering animatedly around a young tan man who was sitting cross-legged on top of a speaker-box, looking down at the teenager quite seriously and with a little hungry interest, like an old cat would watch a favourite toy. Joe passed them on his way to their tiny van, wrinkling his nose as Patrick stepped on his foot.

"Owww," Joe had said, not really complaining at all.

"Sorry! Sorry," Patrick said, his attention still on Pete, who continued to have that intense listening expression on his face. "What was I... what was I saying again?" he asked breathlessly.

"Flutes," Pete replied, shifting a little and bouncing his legs, getting out the cramp. And just like that, Patrick was off again, nearly stepping on Joe's poor foot a second time.

For some reason, after that moment with Pete, he found himself at his room that night, writing furiously. Words and notes literally poured out of him, a deluge that was almost frightening as it was exhilarating. He went to sleep at his desk, waking up the next morning with drool on his papers and his pencil still clutched in his hand. He managed to get more song ideas down before his mother banged on his door and yelled at him to go get ready for school.

It never stopped, from then on. Even when Pete took over most of the writing, Patrick still contributed some _and_ composed the music, composed until he felt like he was made out of eighth notes and half-rests; he even thought of things and people according clefs. Andy was classified into bass-clef when he started playing with the band. So was Joe; Pete was a treble-clef kind of dude, who would slip into bass sometimes, when he felt like being introspective. It was a strange way of thinking, and Patrick thought he would have stopped if Pete wasn't so encouraging about it.

"Yeah, I know I'm a treble-clef," Pete had said a matter-of-factly, a grin that was mocking on his lips and cool in his eyes as he and Patrick had stood backstage and watched another band wrap up their set. "Today is a flat, though."

It had been.

When Pete had slipped away from them, Patrick's composition had slipped too, drying out like tears on a hot day, until he found himself with a depressing blankness that unsettled him so much that he had sat in his bunk on the bus in Europe, the white paper staring at him expectantly. He had flung the handful of paper to the end of his bunk, jerked his curtains shut and sulked in the dark, angry at everything. When Pete called him all the way from the States, he had opened his mouth to say something, to tell Pete that he didn't _understand_ and Pete wouldn't _let_ him understand, and Pete had fucked it all up and put everything out of whack (quite irrational and selfish, but hey)... and then, it was like a switch had been flicked on in Patrick's head. There were floodlights made of music shining in his mind.

"Better now?" Pete asked wearily, speaking as if he was whispering from the moon and Patrick sighed into the phone, feeling shaky under the weight of the notes. "I'm sorry. When you come home, I'll tell you what you need to know. Okay?"

**

"I'm having a hard time grasping what you're saying," Patrick told Pete in Pete's bedroom. Pete was sprawled on one bed, biting the fingernail of his pinky and staring at the ceiling. "Very difficult."

Pete shrugged, staring the fingernail he had been gnawing on and moving onto the next.

"I suppose so. But being your muse is kind of hard. You got a lot of stuff going on."

"Ok, ok, so suppose you're telling me the truth--"

"Which I am. I never lie to you."

"You never lie to me on _purpose_ , but that is not the point. Are you telling me that everything I do... it's because of you?"

"God, no." Pete sat up abruptly and gave Patrick one of those looks, the ones that were penetrating and encompassing. "No, it's not like that. You... you have it, all of it in your head, ok? But getting it out, that's where I help."

"How?" Patrick demanded, sitting on the other bed and leaning forward. Pete looked away, shoulders rising in a long shrug.

"I can't explain it. I can see them," Pete said in a low voice, giving up on his fingernails and drawing his legs up, hugging his knees close; Patrick blinked at him. "You... I can see you thinking. And then I can see where those thoughts clump up together and block everything else and... and I can move some, like one or two and it gets better."

"How far can you do it from?" Patrick breathed, quite forgetting that he was supposed to be sceptical. It was crazytalk, but it was _amazing_ crazytalk, the kind Patrick loved best.

"As far as I can." Pete's smile was small, yet inviting and Patrick gave into his urge to bombard him with questions. Pete wouldn't tell him if he had been born a muse or not, but he did explain that he had known from the start what he was... and he had been surprised to come upon someone like Patrick.

"Because as much as people like to have a muse, muses like to have a... a special project, you know? Like a masterpiece capable of making other masterpieces."

"Oh." Patrick blushed a little, because Pete was smiling at him with a species of wry pride. "Oh, I'm your--"

"Yeah."

They sat in silence, looking at each other and then Patrick frowned.

"But you can turn it off. Like.. like you did the other day. Just... take it all away."

Pete's face closed up completely and he broke eye-contact with Patrick, looking down at the top of his knees, brushing at the faded denim.

"I was doing something muses aren't supposed to do. It got to be a little too much." His eyes flicked back to Patrick, dark and carefully hooded, before returning to the careful perusal of his jeans. "But I'm going to stop what I was doing. And I won't shut it off again."

Patrick shifted, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

"Even if you weren't my muse, I'd be glad you're still around," he blurted, and then bit his bottom lip. Pete smiled without looking up at him.

"Hey," he said softly. "You know what? Me too."

**

Through experimentation, Patrick found that distance was indeed a factor at times; it was a general rule that ideas flowed better if Pete was closer. He thought that Pete tried harder when they were separated, so that whatever bond had been established between them would keep its strength, but he preferred if Pete was right beside him. His thoughts were so clear then, everything happily danced out to his fingertips and he would smile in delight at Pete, wishing he could write with both hands just to keep up with the mental traffic. Pete's answering grin was always slightly mocking and yet indulgent.

Once, while he was trying to work out a stubborn cascade of notes, hunched like a mad scientist in the lounge of the bus, Pete's hand came out of nowhere, fingers brushing down the side of Patrick's face in a quick, gentle movement. The confusing knot of ideas in Patrick's head shook out, unfurled like a row of flowers and presented themselves for inspection.

"That was a hard one, man," Pete remarked, moving to the small fridge and peering at a box of milk that Andy had put in there. He made a face. "Can't we drink real milk now and again? Please. Somebody buy me a cow, or something."

"Holy shit." Patrick stared at the television, not seeing the episode of the X-files that Joe and Andy were watching. Perfect, _perfect_ , he now had an excellent sequence for _here_ and then he could put these words right _there_ and it was going to work out, just fine. He looked at Pete, feeling shell-shocked. Pete slid his gaze over to Joe and Andy, and then shook his head slightly, lifting the box of soy-milk to his smirking mouth as the knowledge of their secret flowed between them. A pillow from the sofa thumped into his face and Pete gave Andy a disgruntled glare.

"Get a glass," Andy said, frowning at Cigarette Smoking Man on TV. "And what was a hard one?"

"My boner this morning," Pete said blithely, snickering as Joe sent pillows in his direction as well. Patrick was still arranging the music gleefully in his head and when he gave a big old grin to Pete, out of sheer delight, Pete stared at him for a moment and then, quickly, grinned back.

**

"Are you a muse to anyone else?" Patrick whispered one night in a hotel room in Washington, preparing himself for a fire-flash of jealousy that would rage through him if Pete said yes. There was a long silence from the other bed and then Pete turned over, facing Patrick. Although the room was very dark, the thick curtains blocking out light, they had left the bathroom light on; Patrick could see the line of his jaw.

"No," Pete said and fell completely silent again, still staring at Patrick.

"Is there like... a muse association?" Patrick pressed. "'Cause there has to be more like you."

Pete just looked at him, a small smile emerging on his mouth. He scratched one shoulder and exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, but we don't have monthly meetings, or anything. Honestly? I've only ever met one other guy, face to face. When we were touring Canada, this old dude. He was surprised to see me, though. Kept saying he didn't think they made muses anymore."

"They?" Patrick propped his head up on one hand and hoped Pete would spill some more. Pete was surprisingly closed-mouth about his history as a muse; apparently, Patrick had to catch him right before he went to sleep.

"They, He, She. Whoever does this thing to muses so they can inspire others. A lot of people just aren't receptive anymore, you know? The old guy said that you could touch all them you want and they don't react. But some people are wide open, like big doors. Like you."

"Oh." Patrick didn't quite get it. Pete twisted his mouth to one side, thinking.

"Like... you're willing to be inspired. That's it."

"But... suppose you didn't ever meet me," Patrick wondered slowly, rolling onto his back and feeling the distinct orderliness of ideas lying quiet in his mind, just waiting to be tended and ripened into song. "I wouldn't be like this."

"That's where you're wrong," Pete said, yawning. There was a long silence after, wherein Patrick assumed that he had fallen into his usual fitful doze; then the warm quiet was broken by Pete's sleepy voice. "I _had_ to meet you. You were meant for this."

Pete seemed to go into a very deep sleep almost immediately, which was odd, and Patrick waited until his breathing smoothed out entirely before getting up and quietly padding over to Pete's bed. He perched on the edge, where Pete was curled comma-like on his side. Sitting in the curve of Pete's body, he reached out to touch Pete on the chin, a brush of trembling fingers across that expressive mouth; regular, slow breaths kissed his fingers from Pete's slightly parted mouth. With every exhale, there was a sensation quite like static electricity skittering across his head. He wondered if his hair was standing on end, and in the middle of this wondering, he found himself leaning down; moving as if he was floating, his mouth brushed against the curve of Pete's jaw and over everyone called his chipmunk-cheeks when he grinned.

Pete muttered and moved his face eagerly, turning to Patrick and smiling in his sleep. Patrick was just about to lean down and... and just kiss him again, because there was this strange and powerful compulsion urging him to kiss his best friend-slash-muse, right on that content little smile, because it would feel so _right_ ; but Pete's eyes snapped open and he actually _rolled away_ from Patrick, commando-like, leaving Patrick with a comically puckered mouth and a confused ego.

"It's not..." Pete started, grabbing his jeans off the carpeted floor and literally jumping in. Patrick stared at him as he rummaged for a hoodie, dragging it over himself, zipping it up quickly. "Not that I. Really, it's _not_ ," he ended darkly and then flung himself out the room.

**

"I'd like to talk to you, please," Patrick said very politely, quite at odds with the way he was dragging Pete bodily out of the dressing room. Pete threw desperate looks at Joe and Andy, but Patrick's face was set into grim lines and no-one crossed Patrick when he was looking so determined. At one point, Pete grabbed onto the frame of the door and held on; Patrick peeled his hand off and pulled him away, finding a small, empty room just down the corridor and shoving him inside.

"What the _fuck_ \--" Pete demanded, staggering away. Patrick grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around _again_ and pressed him against the closed door, leaning in intently. Pete's eyes were wide and very dark. "What are you _doing_?"

"One second," Patrick muttered and crowded up against Pete's tense body, watching his face. The expression in Pete's eyes was highly cautious and there was a flash of fear as Patrick leaned forward. He started to turn his head away, but Patrick caught his face in both hands, and they were both motionless, suspended in a tense moment, until Patrick tilted his head and pressed his mouth, so very slowly, against Pete's.

He expected Pete to push him away again when Pete's hands gripped onto his shoulders; instead, Pete's mouth opened beneath his, one of his hands sliding behind Patrick's neck, the other trailing down his back to curl around his waist, anchoring Patrick as Patrick kissed him and kissed him and kissed him again, until they were both achingly hard and trembling. It was like a drug; Patrick's mind was as clear as outer-space, he felt could compose for _forever_ if he kept kissing Pete; besides, kissing someone he had wanted to kiss for a long time was pretty amazing in itself. He wanted more.

When Patrick's fingers pressed against the tattoo under Pete's navel and hesitated for a split second before attempting to go further, Pete pulled back and began shaking his head.

"Is this about... the muse thing?" Patrick wouldn't let him get away, so he kept him pinned. Pete felt so solid and yet so frail at the same time.

Pete closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head back against the wood of the door.

"If they find out... they would, I dunno, take it away. From me. And you."

"They... wouldn't be so _cruel_ ," Patrick whispered; Pete shook his head.

"How long do you think I wanted this?" Pete asked him, and kissed Patrick in that bittersweet manner lovers used when they were saying farewell. He tried to move away again, Patrick made a little hungry moan, and got one more kiss before Pete tried to talk once more. "You've only wanted to do this recently, you know. I've wanted to do this since... forever. But we can't. It's against the rules."

"What rules?" Patrick asked, angry and sad. He wanted... he wanted to _keep_ Pete. Would that be so wrong?

"Rules," Pete said faintly and kissed Patrick again as if he would never stop. "Rules," he repeated as Patrick tried to wrap himself around Pete like vines around a tree, holding fast. Pete's hand were suddenly all over him, longing at his fingertips, and Patrick's hand continued on its former trajectory, the flat of his hand finally pressing against the hot, warm skin of Pete's cock, feeling pleasure burn in his brain as Pete gasped and his dick twitched against Patrick's stroking fingers.

"Genius," Pete groaned. "You're a fucking _genius_." He actually arched and undulated against Patrick, pulling Patrick's shirt up, hand burning against the skin of Patrick's belly, grappling awkwardly at the catch of Patrick's own jeans. Patrick's mouth was at his neck, doing a fine job at leaving a red mark against olive skin, and Patrick's fingers were moving, pulling, leading Pete up and out, until... until...

Pete's eyes rolled up as he shuddered, showing all white and he suddenly collapsed even as Patrick's fingers were wet with his come.

"Shit!" Patrick snatched his hand out of Pete's jeans, grabbed onto his waist with one hand and around his neck with the other. Even then, he barely managed to save Pete from banging his head against the floor. Pete's eyes were wide open, unblinking as he sprawled in an ungainly fashion on the dusty ground; Patrick patted his cheek, fighting down panic. "Pete. Pete? Pete!"

"He won't wake now."

Patrick froze for a moment; his neck muscles obliged begrudgingly to allow him to turn slowly to the side, staring at a young woman who had appeared out of nowhere to crouch beside him. Her resemblance to Pete was quite unsettling, and her chipmunk-cheeked grin and big teeth caused Patrick to do a double-take.

"Um. Hi?" Patrick looked down at Pete and, blushing furiously, he quickly fastened Pete's jeans. At least he was still breathing. "Who are you?"

"Oh! Um, yeah. They sent me? I'm your new muse. Euterpe, at your service." She held out a slim hand and Patrick, because he was a very well-mannered young man, shook it. Instantly his confused brain felt very soothed, as if honey was poured all over panicked synapses. He snatched his hand away, feeling dread collect in his chest, and placed the same hand on Pete's distressingly still one.

There was nothing coming from Pete at all. Before, when they were touching, Patrick felt the world open in his temples, and his heart had overflowed with satisfied happiness. Now, it was like looking into a dark, depressing hole in the ground.

"No," he whispered, and the new muse tilted her head. She was dressed as Pete would, in loud, clashing colours. The part of Patrick's brain that was very practical thought it must be a muse thing.

"He broke the rules," Euterpe said, her voice hard. Her dark hair was sticking up around her head. "A muse is _not_ supposed to influence their charge to want them. It just isn't done."

"He _didn't_ influence me," Patrick gritted out. "He didn't want to do anything, it's my fault, I... and he wanted me, too."

"Right." The muse didn't look convinced. "Muses are attractive beings. It wouldn't be your fault if you fell in love with him. But for him to feel that way about you? Not likely." She gave Patrick a desultory once-over, shrugged and Patrick glared at her. "The point is, he has to go back. He's almost there, anyway. And I'm here to be your aide! Your inspiration!" She tossed her head back and grinned at him brightly.

"That's not going to work," Patrick told her, moving around so that he could cradle Pete's head in his lap. He looked down at those blank, brown eyes and touched Pete's choppy hair. The strands were coarse under his fingertips. "Pete is the... he's the front-man of our band. All the attention is focused on him--"

"Yes, goes back to the attractive-muse thing," Euterpe interrupted smugly.

"--so that the rest of us can do what we do. The fuck are we going to tell people when he goes away? And... ok, will _you_ play in his place? We need him."

"But I can play an instrument!" Euterpe looked gleeful, pulling her long pink skirt over her ankles as she sat on her behind. "The harp! I've been playing it for years."

 _Oooh_ , the harp... but no. Just, no.

"No," Patrick repeated out loud, detaching the musical side of him that itched to get their greedy little fingers on a harp. "I get a say, right? And I'm saying... no. I _demand_ that he stays here."

Euterpe looked at him with shock. "You're _not understanding_. Without a muse, you won't be able let your compositions out. Without your music, the world is... let's just say that there is a balance, and _you're_ a part of it. You think this is just about you? There are millions and millions of people who depend on--"

Euterpe's face was flushed with outrage, so it was quite unsettling when she paused in the middle of her rant, her eyes as wide and as blank as Pete's. Patrick clutched Pete a little closer, as if she would try to swipe him away in a strange fit; going from his experience with Pete, muses could be sneaky bastards.

"Oh," Euterpe said as she shook herself out of her little fugue. "They're sending down the head honcho. You're in for it now."

"Quiet, child," an old woman said, and Patrick groaned. One minute, he only had one muse to deal with. Next minute, there were muses melting out of the woodwork... or the concrete-work, as it were. The old lady that stepped out of the wall right beside them was scary-old. There were probably clumps of dirt on the planet that were older than this woman, but not by much. Her face was lined and jowly, and she was bent over a polished cane almost as gnarled as she was, wisps of her long grey hair tangled in her fingers. "What is the problem?"

She turned kind, amused eyes on Patrick, who barely stopped himself from shrinking away from her. She looked like someone's grandma, in her bright blue slacks and blinding hibiscus-print blouse, yet there was something a little frightening about her, as if he was standing in the middle of a lightning-storm. Euterpe pointed an accusing finger at Patrick.

"This one doesn't want a new muse, Calliope! He wants to keep that one. That won't work! That's against the rules, you have to tell him how the rules go--"

"Silence." The old woman called Calliope stepped even closer, and peered down at Pete's face. "Hmm, yes. Peter. He's one of my clan, you know. Quite good with words. Quite troublesome, too. Ah, well." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a deck of cards, which she shuffled with her crooked fingers. "You like card-games?"

Patrick felt as if he was taking crazy-pills.

"Yes? But what does that have to do with--"

"Life and love. They're like a card-game," Calliope said conversationally, and three cards flicked out of the deck and landed beside Pete's elbow. Patrick looked at them closely, for they were quite large and didn't look like ordinary cards at all. Two were face-up; in one, a man was sitting at an old-fashioned table, dressed in archaic robes, writing on a scroll that fell off his desk and rolled off in the gloom of the tiny room he was in. A shining woman dressed in pure-white stood just behind him, her hand on his shoulder as she looked down at him proudly. In the other one, the same man sat abjectly on a dark staircase, his quill in his hand. The shining woman was nowhere to be seen.

The third card remained face down.

"Euterpe told you," Calliope now said in a terrible voice. "And now, you must choose carefully. You may keep Euterpe and you will continue to have your talent flow out of you. You will be creative for the rest of your life. And in the other choice... well. You can see. You will never have another... what is the phrase? 'Hit song', ever again."

Patrick didn't even hesitate; he set his jaw and looked right into her bright eyes.

"I don't care," he said very carefully. "He's mine. Get that? I would rather not have any talent at all, than send him away."

Euterpe gasped in horror. Calliope laughed.

"I have not seen this in so many years!" When she laughed like that, her face was immeasurably younger. She reached out with her cane and turned over the third card, revealing the man and the woman. They were sitting on the same bench together in the same room as the first card, and the woman's robes seemed tinged in every fold by a faint rainbow, her smile adoring as she rest her small hand on the man's. The quill rose up between their joined fingers, and the window behind them was pushed fully open, revealing a serene countryside. "Oh, in times like these, being a soul-mate trumps being a muse. I _love_ card-games!"

Ignoring the chortling Calliope, Patrick looked at Pete's face, watching as the blank look faded and Pete blinked up at him.

"Hey," Pete croaked, and Patrick breathed out a broken, relieved sigh, bending to press his mouth against Pete's jaw.

"Hey." He held on tightly to Pete. "I get to keep you."

"It's not fair!" Euterpe was complaining bitterly to Calliope as Pete struggled to sit up. "I wanted _this_ one, I never get the nice talented ones, it's not _fair_!"

"Aw, never mind," Calliope said. "We'll find you one for your very own, don't worry. Pete? Your status is changed, my little friend."

"So... I get to stay then," Pete said warily. "Cause I really want that." He flicked a heated gaze at Patrick, and blushed a little. Patrick was utterly charmed; he had never seen Pete blush before. "I don't have to be his muse, I just want to be near him. Can that work?"

Calliope let out another peal of delighted giggles, quite disconcerting on a muse her age.

"Everything will be just fine," she said, smiling at Pete in approval. She stepped away, fading into the wall, dragging a pouting Euterpe with her. "Bye, Patrick! Take care!"

"Uh, you too," Patrick said awkwardly, wondering if had to sketch a bow, or something. Calliope winked, Euterpe scowled and then they were gone.

The room was deathly quiet as he and Pete stared at each other. Pete smiled, his cocky grin sitting uncertainly on his face, until Patrick backed him up against the wall again, looking at his mouth in deep contemplation. He placed a considering kiss on that beloved mouth, smiling against Pete's lips as music cascaded through his brain.

"I'm still--" Pete said with an amazed expression and Patrick kissed him again.

"Yeah," Patrick said, elated. "Forever."

"That'll work." Pete's smile was something wonderful, and Patrick kissed it until he didn't know his own breath from Pete's, and his heart was content.

 

 _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title comes from the wikipedia entry on [Artistic Inspiration](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artistic_inspiration): _Inspiration in artistic composition refers to an irrational and unconscious burst of creativity. Literally, the word means "breathed upon"._  
>  2\. From the entry on [Muses](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muse): Calliope is _chief of the muses and muse of epic or heroic poetry_ , and Euterpe _is the muse of music and lyric poetry._


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